


You Exited My Life (But Not My Mind)

by Ozymanreis



Series: 30 Day Sheriarty Challenge [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Cemetery, Grief/Mourning, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, M/M, Mind Palace, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Sad Ending, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: Sherlock makes a day trip.





	You Exited My Life (But Not My Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 21: Kisses
> 
> Ha, so I took a light, fluffy prompt and made it angst.

_“A kiss may ruin a human life.” -Oscar Wilde_

 

* * *

 

Most days, Sherlock stands, glowering at the grass, the Earth’s pithy offering of healing. It should bring him comfort, the idea that life goes on, that five years had passed, much like any others before it. He’ll stay a few minutes, consider praying, won’t, then continue about his existence, perhaps grab chips on the way home.

Today, however, his soul weighs heavy in its container. He arrives minutes after noon, just off the tube, cemetery two blocks away. Mycroft knows about this, every single time since his return (sixteen). John doesn’t. It’s better, the fewer people that know.

At 12, he’s standing, glowering, like usual.

At 12:30, he’s kneeling, breaking the deathly silence with a soft, “I came back, like I promised.”

By 13:00, he’s sitting down, staring at the emboldened words in the tombstone. Sherlock knew Jim would have some thoughts on this all his own, but lord help him, the shadow in his mind palace stayed eerily silent.

“Say something.” Sherlock would beg, but the specter always shook its head. Was it out of respect, or could his vast imagination and logical characterization do nothing but… watch? Much like he did now.

Sherlock reaches out, fingers stroking lovingly, regretfully over the smooth, cold planes of gray, “Sometimes I wonder if I could’ve saved you.” Rather than himself. It’s stupid to postulate, but what else could he do? He wants to cry, it might let out some of the crushing emptiness filling his chest, but no. No, he’s _famous_ now, someone might see. Might catch him here anyway, somewhere practically forbidden, but tears ruin some aspect of his image.

At some point, in the afternoon sun, he nods off. While asleep, he gets comfortable, situating himself over the plot, a mere six feet of dirt between the detective and his deepest misfortune.

When he wakes, the sun is setting, a frigid mist creeping in. Sighing, Sherlock notes that _still,_ nothing has changed. Still just as alone in the world as he’d been most of his life, save the moments that the perpendicular lines on the graph met.

Yet, for the time they had, Sherlock was grateful, even if left with many regrets. Things he could never do, questions he could never ask, parts of his own mind that lived in Moriarty that he could never discover.

On impulse, almost childishly, he places a kiss on the headstone. No. Jim isn’t there, everything he was had evaporated back into the cosmos. But this isn’t much about him at all. He takes another moment, swallowing down his pain, the carved name in the granite the least of his problems, yet caused the most turmoil: JAMES C. MORIARTY

“The handshake might have to wait a while.” He whispers, kissing it again before turning away, disappearing into the fog.


End file.
